


somewhere along in the bitterness

by zukka (jercys)



Series: zukka oneshots based on my life [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: (kinda?), Angst, How Do I Tag, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Sad Zuko (Avatar), Suicidal Thoughts, no beta we die like sokka in this fic lol, this is my rambling mess abt missing my friend who died bc i project onto zuko thats all, title is from how to save a life by the fray bc it hurts my heart when i listen to it sob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jercys/pseuds/zukka
Summary: we all heard that theory abt how sokka dies young, so here's 1k or so words of zuko grieving. that's it.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: zukka oneshots based on my life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061270
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	somewhere along in the bitterness

**Author's Note:**

> hi i hope u enjoy! all i know how to do is project onto fictional characters so this is me being sad i hope its okay <3 
> 
> tw for major character death (duh), slight suicial thoughts (blink and you'll miss it)

Sokka is gone. Zuko is 17 and Sokka is gone. He’s supposed to be 16 now. Supposed to be 16 and beautiful, and loud, and here, and alive. But he’s not.

Zuko is 17 and he’s tired. Tired of fighting, tired of talking, of running, of loving, he’s tired of  _ being _ . He wishes Sokka were here, to tell him it would be okay, to not worry, to tell Zuko he loves him. But he can’t. And he won’t ever again.

The air is stale and cold without him. He used to fill the room. How fitting that it was empty now, that Zuko was empty now. 

Sokka was warmth, was life itself, honestly. Sokka livined the room. Sokka livined the room, so how ironic was it now, that he was dead? How  _ fucking _ ironic right? How ironic that the most energetic, the most lively, the most  _ alive _ member of their group was gone, was dead. How ironic was it that he, Zuko, the most dead person, the least fun, was still here. How ironic right? How fucking ironic. 

Zuko knows he should talk to his friends, talk to Katara, to Aang. But he doesn’t. He sits in his room and cries. Sharp sobs catch in his throat, wracking his body in the darkness. He sifts through his favorite pictures of them, of him, brings them to his lips with shaking hands, crackling fingers. 

It’s either a Friday or a Wednesday, Zuko doesn’t know. Time doesn’t feel real since. Nothing feels real, except for the hurting. The phantom pain in his head, endlessly tense muscles, the sore throat from swallowing down his tears, the cracking of his joints from disuse. 

Sokka wrote him letters, wrote all of his friends letters, actually. Zuko knows he shouldn’t, knows it’ll only hurt more. He reads the letter anyways. Reads, and rereads, and reads, and reads again. He engrains it into his memory. Every pen stroke, every dot, line, and letter. He tries to keep the paper clean, but his tears soak into it with every reread. The ink smears a little, and Zuko knows he has to put down the letter or he’ll lose it forever, lose Sokka forever, again. 

He needs to keep everything he can. Like the little things he left behind are parts of his soul. Things Zuko wishes he could keep forever. Every shirt, text, book, little trinket, every object is a piece of his soul Zuko will cherish. 

And he misses him. Oh god, does Zuko miss him. And even more, misses what they could’ve had. Every dinner they could’ve gone to together, every movie they could’ve seen, kiss they could’ve shared, picture they could’ve taken, every experience with Sokka he didn’t have, and now could never have. 

They say when people die they become stars in the sky. But Zuko doesn’t think so. Sokka’s not some random star dotting the inky black night, for people to just look at and forget about. No, Sokka was the center. Sokka is the sun. Warm, and bright, and burning. Zuko felt like burning every time Sokka used to look at him. He used protest, used to say “Come on Zuko, I don’t burn you. Melt, maybe, but burn? No way,” in response. But he was wrong. He was so wrong, because every second Zuko was near Sokka was burning. Zuko was Icarus, and Sokka dragged him in with his very being, with his warm laugh, with his bright eyes. And Zuko let him, would let him a thousand times over. 

Sokka was magnetic, and of course Zuko was helpless. Sokka was magnetic, and Zuko could never pull away. Sokka was magnetic, and therefore repelled some, but his pull on others was the exact opposite. On Zuko, on Suki, on Aang and Toph, on Katara, on Bato, on everyone in his life was so strong they couldn’t help but be dragged in, couldn’t help but love right back with the same intensity that Sokka did them. 

And Sokka was so much. So much more than perfect, so much more than gorgeous, so much more than everyone in this stupid town, in this stupid world. He deserved so much more than he got, so much more than what life dealt him. Sokka was the best thing in Zuko’s life to be honest, he wasn’t even embarrassed to admit it. Sokka made everything better, the worst of days, the most awful of movies, the shittiest of experiences. He made them all better, made Zuko better. 

Zuko imagines Sokka’s face again. The smooth, perfect skin, leading to his blue, blue, eyes, and his sloping nose. His sharp jawline and cheekbones, the slight pink of his cheeks when he’s happy. His pretty pink lips, and long, thick eyelashes. His toned arms, and long fingers. And Zuko misses him. Misses everything about him. 

A sharp sound brings him back to the present, what it was, Zuko doesn’t know, doesn’t care. His hands clench, the short nails digging into his palms. He can feel the sharp sting biting into his skin. He feels the drying tear tracks on his cheeks, the hard drywall against his back, he  _ can _ feel, but none of it feels real. 

He feels empty. Feels like he did when his mom left, or died, he’s not sure what happened still, after all these years. At least with Sokka he has some closure, knows what happened. It’s not better, if Zuko’s being honest. Might be worse actually. At least with his mother he can imagine the life she has now. Without his father, and his cruel words, cruel actions. Without their house, without that stress, without Azula, without  _ him _ . At least with his mother he can imagine she had a choice, she had a say in running away, a say in not being in his life anymore. 

And It’s not fair. Of course it’s not, but when has life ever been fair to Zuko, or to Sokka for that matter. It’s not fair and he thinks it  _ should’ve been him _ .  _ It should've been him _ because Sokka was so much, so bright, so ethereal, so gorgeous. And what is Zuko to an angel?

Sobs rise in his throat again like the sun now peaking above the horizon. Oh look, it’s morning, and he’s made it through another night. Sokka used to tell Zuko that as long as he could make it until the next sunrise he’d be okay. Too bad Sokka couldn't listen to his own advice, because here Zuko was, watching the sun rise, alone.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my first time writing angst so lmk if i got it right?  
> comments and kudos literally make my day :o  
> and this is my first part of a bunch of zukka oneshots ill try to keep updating these :)  
> feel free to join my new [discord server](https://discord.gg/u7erkzfNnq) if you'd like :) i also now have a [twitter](https://twitter.com/JEANM0REAU) if you'd like to follow me there! (not that i really know how to use twitter lol)


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